and just like that, the chemicals react
by chalantness
Summary: Day 5: electricity - There are things Natasha does for Sif that she wouldn't even consider doing for anyone else, even if that means crashing on the couch in the communal lounge for the night because she finally – finally! – got her shit a little more sorted out with Thor.
1. swirls of flames, dancing in the night

**15 Day Elemental Challenge – Day 1 ******–** fire**

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~2,000  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Steve/Natasha and a little bit of others  
><strong>Prompts:<strong> "fire" + "high school reunion au" + "(404): He yearns for your heart. (678): He needs to stop being a pussy about it." + "Let the alcohol tell me all the things you won't say sober." —unknown

**and just like that, the chemicals react (1/15)**

She won't call it a reunion, because graduation was only three years ago and most of them (the ones she actually cares about, anyway) still keep in touch, as far as Facebook goes, anyway. That's not the same as actually hanging out or having a real conversation outside of comment threads and IM chats, but it's still something. It'd be a shame for four years of passing notes and cramming for tests during passing periods, nights of phone tag and mass texts at ungodly hours of the morning to finish homework, to be swept under the rug.

(Surviving high school had been a true group effort.)

Bucky Barnes was the one to reserve the beach and get the permits for the bonfires and post it to the Class of 2016 Facebook group to get the word out, which isn't a surprise. He'd _always_ been the center of the party scene during their years at Margaret Carter College Preparatory.

Natasha gets there an hour late, because she kind of fell asleep for a bit (she _loves _summer break) and then took her time getting ready, but whatever. She gets passed around for a good ten minutes as everyone hugs her excitedly, gushing about how they've missed her. It's mostly the buzz talking, she's sure, but she still grins and hugs them back.

Tony hands her a drink as her eyes drift over the crowd, and she doesn't have to see his face to know that he's already smirking.

"Looking for someone special?"

She rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't you love to know?"

"I already know," he corrects. She narrows her eyes at him slightly. She used to be better at not letting Tony ruin her mood, but it's been a while since she's seen him in person, so she's a little out of practice. "Maybe he's picking up his date."

"I don't know what or who you're talking about, Stark," she says, and his laugh follows her as she walks away.

She used to be better at lying, too.

... ...

"_Holy—_" Darcy exclaims in exasperation as she stumbles to Natasha's side, _again_, clinging onto her arm for balance and sloshing beer onto the both of them. Granted, Darcy probably isn't _that_ drunk, but they're on sand and Darcy doesn't have that much balance while sober to begin with – it's a miracle that she hasn't stumbled into the bonfire yet.

Pepper presses her lips together, trying not to be amused by Darcy's frustrations. Clint, on the other hand, just _laughs_.

Darcy tosses a glare at him and he holds his hands up in surrender.

"Do we need to cut you off soon?" Sam asks, already moving to take the girl's cup away.

"I'm not _that _drunk, I'm just cold," Darcy insists, and then tips her head back for another defiant swig of beer. Everyone chuckles. "Actually, if I weren't a little drunk, I'd probably be fucking freezing," she argues.

"Drinking yourself stupid won't make your body any warmer, honey," Natasha points out, one eyebrow arched. "Try stealing a jacket, it'll be more effective."

"Nah, all Darcy would need to do is flash that pretty little smile of hers and she'd get whatever she wants," a voice says, and Natasha turns to find—

Steve.

He, Tony, and Bucky are making their over, and Steve meets Natasha's gaze, lip quirking up in that ridiculous (adorable) grin of his. How he doesn't look totally ridiculous with his muscles stretching out the fabric of his white button-down is lost on Natasha, as is how he manages to _not_ look like a total ass showing up to a bonfire party in a white shirt and khaki cutoffs, like something out of the Hamptons. She's pretty sure everyone would've given Steve shit for his preppy clothes out of uniform if he didn't look so ridiculously good in them. It suited him, but so did his grass-stained jersey when he was out on the field, and so did his grease-stained coveralls when he worked at his part-time job at the auto repairs shop.

Steve's always been the exception to a lot of things. Natasha spent four frustrating years trying to piece him together, something she'd failed to do by graduation, and if he's wandered into her thoughts in the three years since then, well…

She hates unanswered questions.

"Steve!" Darcy exclaims, throwing her arms around to him. Everyone laughs, but then Sam's barreling into both of them for a hug and everyone's cracking up.

"He finally decided he wanted to show up," Bucky says, clapping a hand over Steve's shoulder.

Steve shrugs. "My flight got delayed," he offers as explanation, moving to hug Pepper as soon as Darcy and Sam are out of the way, and he and Clint shake hands, as per their usual greeting. Then he's standing in front of Natasha, raising an arm and an eyebrow, that stupid grin on his lips again.

She steps forward and he wraps his arms around her, hugging her close, hand smoothing down her back, and she presses her face into his shoulder.

(She can feel everyone staring at them. They all get ignored.)

"It's good to see you, Nat," he tells her, his breath warm against her ear, and she pulls back to give him a grin.

"You, too," she says.

"How come you weren't this glad to see _me_, man?" Bucky asks, feigning (okay, only half-feigning) offense, and they're all laughing again as Steve shoves his shoulder.

... ...

Natasha would be lying if she said she hasn't thought about Steve since high school.

It's not an everyday kind of thing, but it feels like that, almost, because they spent so much time together in high school and lots of small things just remind her of him. She'll lie on her stomach on top of her bed as she studies and remember how, no matter whose room they gathered into when they went over to each other's houses to study, she and Steve would always end up on the bed, her on her stomach and him lounging back against the pillows with his textbook in his lap and his pencil behind his ear. She'll grab a rag to clean up some spill at the diner she works at and pictures Steve leaning against his workbench at the auto repair shop, wiping his hands on a rag and grinning as he sees her trailing behind their friends when they'd visit (distract) him. She'll doodle in the margins on her notebooks during particularly boring lectures and remember his sketch book, old and creased at the spine and filled with beautiful illustrations – grab a red apple from the basket because she knows those're his favorite – hum oldies songs from the station his radio was always on.

She'll crave pancakes and remember how Steve would always make them breakfast on weekends, or she'll be at a party and remember how the two of them would sneak onto the roof and talk all night under the stars, or she'll be alone in the studio and remember how he'd come after practice, sweaty and exhausted, and still want to dance with her.

She hasn't been pining for Steve, hasn't been hung up on him these last three years, but she's definitely missed him.

... ...

It takes a lot to get Natasha drunk – one, because she has a pretty high tolerance, and two, because she normally doesn't let herself drink that much to begin with. She tries not to get more than a good buzz when she's out and knows she has things to do the next day, but it's summer, and Pepper kept insisting that she'd drive her home, and it's been a hell of a lot longer than she thought since she's gotten drunk – _good_ drunk, not stupid drunk – and the heat of the bonfire with the warmth the alcohol in her system feels kind of amazing.

There's a bass thrumming through the air, sounding vaguely (fittingly) tribal, and she lets herself get lost in it, tossing her head back and bending with the beat.

She gathers a bit of an audience – she's a _dancer_, it just happens, sometimes – and everyone's dancing themselves but mostly watching her, and she gestures for her friends to come over, but only Darcy, Sam, and Bucky join her.

A few moments later, Darcy leans in and tells her over the music, only loud enough for Natasha to catch, that, "Steve's staring at you."

Natasha knows without having to even look. She can feel his gaze searing into her skin.

"He always stares," Natasha points out. Darcy raises her eyebrows, her expression very much saying, _and?_ "And all he does is stare," Natasha clarifies.

Darcy giggles in understanding, linking their arms together, which is a little awkward since they're still dancing, but whatever. "Oh, honey, that's because he's so into you that it makes him stupid!" she insists, like she's willing a little kid into being understanding. "He yearns for your heart."

Natasha laughs. "He needs to stop being a pussy about it."

Darcy's eyes sparkle. "Maybe you need to stop being a dick about it," she sings – _sings_. God, she's so drunk. "The boy can only bite if you throw him a bone."

"Okay, Darcy," Natasha indulges.

... ...

It's late, and it's _cold_, and the crowd has settled but hasn't really thinned, and so they're all sort of just lounging in the sand around the warmth of the bonfires, laughing and talking against the soft crashing of the waves a few feet away and a slow beat thrumming from the stereos. She ends up sitting with Steve (because isn't that always how it goes?) on top of the blanket that he brought, the same one that they'd spread out over the grass when they had picnics and over the lining of their tent to throw their sleeping bags over. He's drunk and she can tell because of the way his words tumble out. His sentences, usually more composed, are messier, a little drawn out and senseless, and he tends to ramble a little bit.

"…and, ah," he exhales with a chuckle. She's lying flat on her back and he's sitting up, bracing back on his hands. "You look good."

"You've said that a few times already," she points out, eyebrows raised.

"I know," he admits.

"Oh, but please, do go on," she says, grinning up at him. "I'd love to get a few more compliments out of you while I can, even if they're all the same."

He chuckles again, shaking his head. "There you go again," he says softly, like it was meant just for him.

"What?"

He tips his head back to look at the stars. Well, he _would_ be, if his eyes were open. "You make it so easy to be around you, but it's so hard at the same time," he tells her. "I'm not sure how I can feel so damn so comfortable but so… I don't know – tense, I guess, at times."

She looks up at the stars, too. "At what times?" she asks.

There's a pause, and a ghost of a breeze sweeps through, but the warmth of the flames soothes the chills away quickly.

"All the time," he breathes.

She exhales slowly, reaching for him, and he moves to lie flat on his back beside her, their arms pressing together. She slips her fingertips down his skin until her fingers fold into his with a gentle squeeze, and he rubs his thumb over her skin in gentle circles.

"I wanted to ask you out for like, all of high school," he tells her. "Half the time I thought you might… you know. But you kept trying to set me up on dates, so… I figured…" He lets out another breath, clearing his throat. "I know you didn't really want one, either—after those assholes you were with before. I didn't want to be some sort of phase."

He turns to look at her, and she thinks about that slow burning inside her, those flickers of heat she'd get every time he sparked within her thoughts.

"You're stuck with me, Steve," she tells him.

He hears her real words, like he always has, and he seems to consider this, nodding gently as he pulls his fingers from hers. She closes her eyes, humming softly, and then she's being enveloped by his warmth as he rolls on top of her, skin searing against hers as they kiss.


	2. paint me with the colors of spring

**15 Day Elemental Challenge – Day 2 – earth**

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~1,800  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Steve/Natasha, (minor) Tony/Pepper  
><strong>Prompts:<strong> "earth" + "camping au" + "overhearing a couple having sex au" + "Imagine your OTP out camping and trapped in their tent or a cave by a sudden rainstorm, and it doesn't look like it will be letting up any time soon."

**and just like that, the chemicals react (2/15)**

Natasha glances upward as another rumble of thunder rolls overhead. The gray clouds have only been growing darker since they'd arrived at the campsite this morning, which, of course, had caused Pepper and Tony to bicker under hushed tones while everyone was setting up their tents. Never mind the fact that any one of the eight of them here could've prevented this by bothering to check the weather before reserving the grounds. Those two will take any opportunity to argue with each other, which always starts off quiet at first, attempting to keep it between themselves, only for their voices to grow louder and louder the more heated the argument becomes, until it ends with them storming off like kids.

That had happened two hours ago, and they're all painfully wary of the fact that the _making up_ part that comes next may be one that they stumble upon this time, especially with the threat of rain forcing them into close proximity with nowhere to run.

"Think they're back at the campsite already?" Steve asks, as if hearing her thoughts, and she can't help but grin. He's always been weirdly attuned to her like that.

"I'm trying not to think of where they are or what they might be in the middle of doing, to be honest."

He chuckles, handing her a few more berries. She's in his tent, helping him make paint out of berries and leaves, because he'd read about it online a few weeks ago and thought it'd be pretty cool. He wouldn't shut up about it, honestly, would get this ridiculously adorable look on his face when he talked about it, and, whatever.

Maybe that was half the reason she suggested they go camping in the first place. He doesn't have to know that, though.

When she's decided that the berries in her small, plastic cup have been sufficiently mashed, she sets it down by the others they've got lined up on the foldout tray resting on the floor and then stretches her arms, falling back onto the mess of blankets they'd dragged into the tent. It's strangely warm out considering it's seconds from pouring, even more so inside the tent, sharing the same space as Steve, who is a human space heater, honestly. She'd already stripped down to her camisole, and she's itching to get out of her jeans, except she left her shorts in hers and Maria's tent and is kind of too comfortable right now to go outside. She wonders if Steve would be bothered if she was just in her underwear.

(Probably not, but the fact that she still has some lingering doubt is frustrating.)

"So, Captain—"

"_Co-_captain," he corrects easily, meeting her gaze with a grin. She laughs and rolls her eyes. He can say what he wants – he and Bucky may be co-captains of the football team but it was just a formality. Bucky had no interest in actually being responsible for them and Steve was the one everyone listened to, even before he became _co-captain_.

"_Captain_," she repeats, earning an amused shake of his head. "What do you plan on painting with your earth-paint?"

"No idea," he admits with a shrug.

She rolls onto her side, propping her head up as she watches him pull his sketchbook out of his backpack and onto his lap. He flips it open, grabs a plastic cup off of the tray and dips his paintbrush in, and then swirls it experimentally across the page. She finds herself smiling as his lips quirk up into a grin, obviously pleased by how the paint turned out. He swirls the bristles around a few more times before cleaning it in the water, staining it purple, and then grabbing another cup, repeating this until he's tested all the colors against the page.

"How's it look?" she asks.

He grins at her, patting the spot beside him, and she crawls over to him.

The paint looks more like water colors, except much more vibrant, and with dots of texture. "Looks good," she says, meaning it. He nods and she settles into his side, and some of her weight is on his arm, but he doesn't seem to mind.

It's quiet at first, but a comfortable kind of quiet, which settles very easily between them and always has.

She remembers when they first met, sitting on the same log around the campfire all those years ago, content with watching their fellow summer campers run amuck – remembers the first day of school following that first summer, his eyes falling on hers with a spark of surprise and curiosity and possibly _excitement_ when the principal introduced her to her new classmates, a look of understanding passing between them that brought out in soft laughs and drew confused expressions from their classmates, though neither of them minded.

They talked, of course, with playful teases in the hallways and whispered conversations during class lectures and long phone calls mumbled into their pillows. But these comfortable silences, these pure moments of just _them_ and nothing else, are her favorite.

She lets out a soft hum, listening as the soft tapping of raindrops starts against the tent walls, picking up into a gentle pour within minutes.

"You think everyone made it back?" Steve asks.

She shrugs one shoulder. "Even if they haven't yet, it's just rain and they're big kids—they'll be fine."

"You're just too lazy to go looking for them," he says knowingly. She can _hear_ his smirk.

"Okay," she says with a laugh. "Have fun looking for them in the rain. Just don't get water on me when you come back."

He chuckles, shifting as if to actually get up, but the movement jostles the sketchbook in his laugh, knocking over the cup of paint he'd been balancing on it and sending the purple liquid onto her jeans.

They both freeze at first, nothing but a muttered, "_shit_," coming from Steve, but then he tosses the cup aside and rushes out a, "sorry, Nat, sorry," as he yanks his shirt off and presses it against her thigh, soaking up whatever drops of paint hasn't already stained her jeans.

"It's not a big deal, Steve," she says with a bit of a laugh, because the guy's looking at her with this adorably apologetic look.

"You sure?" he asks.

"Yeah, let me just…" She hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her jeans and shifts, pushing it down her hips, and her hand bumps against his where it's still hovering over the place on her thigh where the paint had soaked into jeans. He tenses, but doesn't pull away, either, as she gets them down her legs and kicks them off.

"Better?" His eyes are on her, his blue eyes settling into a darker shade, a vibrant shade, vaguely reminding her of the berries they'd picked to make his paint.

The same berries she's scooping into her hands, crushing between her fingertips and her palm as she licks her bottom lip and shakes her head. His eyebrow furrows slightly as he peers down at her, confusion forming behind the clouds of his want in his eyes, and then wiping her hand across his bare chest, smearing berries against his chest, relishing in the feeling of his muscles moving beneath her palm. He tenses in surprise, flinching at the unexpected sensation against his skin but no trying to move away from her touch, either.

"Better," she declares, grinning.

He glances down at his abs and takes in her handiwork with a deep chuckle that she feels against her palm. It feels nice.

"You should consider a career in art," he teases.

She hums, pretending to consider this, and he watches as she dips her hand back into the paper bag of berries. "I'll need practice, then," she tells him. He just arches an eyebrow at her, and, well, whether this is a challenge or an invitation, she takes it.

She crushes a more berries against his chest, dragging her fingertips over the dips of his muscle, swirling the berry juices around. She tries to form a design of some sort, but it's just this blend of juice berry clumps slowly sliding down his front, a few drops already falling onto the blankets beneath them, but she hardly cares about a little mess.

His body vibrates beneath her skin with deep chuckles as she carries on, and she loves it, the way his muscles flex and coil beneath her touch, reacting to the way she drags her fingers and presses down in spots she thinks (knows) will make his body jump. Raindrops pelt against the tent in a rapid thrum, a strangely fitting background to her slow, methodic strokes, and she's so transfixed by her own work that she lets out surprised a yelp of laughter when his hands squeeze over her hips, lifting her over and onto his lap. She straddles the tops of his thighs and slides her fingers up, smoothing over definition of his collarbone, the dip of his shoulders, the column of his neck, coaxing out shorter and heavier breaths.

Until, finally, their faces end up in the same space, his breath warm against her cheeks, eyes hazing over as they fall onto her lips.

Her kiss draws a deep sigh from both of them, and then he's pressing his hand over the small of her back, drawing her flush against him, juice wetting her camisole, kissing her deeper, harder, his other hand pulling at her thigh and tucking her perfectly onto him.

He drags his lips from hers, kissing over the apple of her cheek, under her jaw, down her neck, over her pulse, and a moan echoes through the air—

Except, she's stopping, and he is, too, because that moan – that moan had _definitely_ not come out of her.

She meets his eyes and finds her wariness reflecting in his expression, but then another moan trails through the air, a little louder, a little higher, this time followed by, "What happened to keeping quiet?" in a smug and amused voice, muffled by the distance between their tents, but so very clearly _Tony_ that there's really no doubt that they're hearing exactly what they thought they were hearing. But she _hadn't_ heard anyone come back to the campsite, meaning that they'd actually been only a few feet away this whole time.

"_Of fucking course_," Natasha exhales, admittedly amused, and her forehead falls onto Steve's as she shakes with a quiet laughter.

Steve looks up at her, lip quirked upward. "Want to stop?" he offers.

She shakes her head, and that seems to be the right answer, because he pushes his fingers under the hem of her camisole, pulling it up and over her head before grabbing another cup of his earthy paint, eyes admiring his new canvas.


	3. took my breath (and didn't even try)

**15 Day Elemental Challenge – Day 3 – air**

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~1,800  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Steve/Natasha, Sharon  
><strong>Prompts:<strong> "air" + "early morning running au" + "literally bumping into each other au" + "brand new neighbors au"

**and just like that, the chemicals react (3/15)**

She hasn't spoken to Sharon in a few months, hasn't actually seen her in person in half a year, if not more. And yet, when everything goes to hell, she's the first and only person Natasha can think of to turn to. She gets the address off of an event on Facebook from a few weeks ago (one Natasha never even responded to; _fuck, _she's an awful friend), packs everything into her trunk, and drives straight through the night towards Washington, watching the stars twinkle and then fade as the sun glides overhead, bringing her home.

Sharon has every right to shut the door on her face, but at the same time, Natasha knows the girl won't.

(Natasha's selfishly clinging onto this part.)

She grips onto the steering wheel a little tighter as the streets grow more familiar, memories rushing back to her and closing over her chest, until she finds herself pulling up to the curb across the street from the same house she pretty much grew up in.

There isn't a car in the driveway. She knows Sharon is the only one that still lives here, and with a pang of dread, Natasha realizes Sharon might be at work today.

She should've thought this through a little more. She shouldn't try to intrude on her friend's life like this. She should've _never_—

"Hey," a voice says.

There's a guy at her window, knuckles grazing the glass, and somehow the smile on his face is worrying and welcoming at the same time. It's a genuine, dimpled smile, a smile too loving to be worn on a stranger for another stranger, but it makes her loosen her grip on the wheel.

She unbuckles herself and he steps back as she opens the door, and maybe she should feel embarrassed by the way she almost _gasps_ for air, but whatever.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, eyebrows knitting together. His voice, just like his smile, seems too tender, too affectionate. But, as she takes in his pale gray scrubs, she realizes that it must be his bedside manners kicking in. "I saw you pull up and then you didn't get out for a while," he explains. "I just wanted to make sure nothing was wrong."

"No, I'm fine," she reassures, glancing away. "Everything's fine."

He raises his eyebrows a little, and how that manages to look unconvinced without being patronizing is kind of impressive, actually.

She breathes out a laugh. A warm breeze passes by, smelling like petals and grass and _home_, and she can hear the echoes of another memory, the giggles of two little girls racing down the curb.

"It's been a while since I've been home," she finds herself saying, because something about this stranger is compelling her to trust him, even though that's not something she does easily, and the last time she did, it ended up with her pissed and running (_always running_) out in the middle of the night.

"You used to live here?" he asks, and she blinks, because that's… not what she'd been expecting.

"One block over, actually, but I spent most of my life in there," she explains, gesturing over her shoulder at Sharon's house.

"You're friends with Sharon," he guesses. She nods. "Well, I can promise you that Sharon? She'll probably be over the moon excited to see you."

Natasha exhales a shaky laugh. "I'm not so sure about that."

He grins and juts his chin over her shoulder. "Want to prove one of us wrong?" he asks, and something about it sounds like a challenge, the kind kids make to each other in on the schoolyard. It's the kind Natasha could never resist, the kind she and Sharon and their classmates would wage candy and cookies and made up playground privileges over, and this small but insane part of her feels like he somehow _knows_ this. "I'm just leaving for work, by the way, so you won't have an audience," he adds, probably misinterpreting her silence.

She nods a little, gripping her keys in her hand as she looks over her shoulder. She can see Sharon now moving around the living room.

"Good luck," he tells her, voice so soft that she nearly misses it in the breeze, and there's a squeeze on her shoulder and another warm smile on his face before he nods in goodbye and walks back to his driveway.

She takes a breath.

... ...

(Natasha is greeted with a blink of surprise, a quiet moment thick with guilt, until she finds herself being knocked back a little by the force of a hug. She remembers how many times Sharon nearly tackled her to the concrete in these kind of hugs when they were little, before taking her hand and tugging her inside much like right now.

There's another agonizing second where Natasha asks if she could move in and Sharon gives her this _look_, but then she says, "Natasha, this will _always_ be your home, too," and Natasha feels a little like she can't breathe, but in the best way possible.)

... ...

A few days later, she finds herself pushing a cart through the grocery story, crossing things off the list Sharon handed her as the girl tosses things into the cart. Apparently block parties are still a thing in their neighborhood, and though Sharon offered for them to skip this one and spend the day in the city, worried that maybe throwing Natasha back into the middle of everything she seemed so eager to leave behind before would send her running again. Not that she'd said any of this, but Natasha still understood, and she hadn't been upset. She all but threw away her ties with everyone the moment she got swept away to New York, which wasn't her intention, but she hadn't made a real effort to prove otherwise.

"Are you kidding? I'm not skipping out on Mrs. Hill's mashed potatoes," she'd said, and Sharon had _beamed_, a few more slivers of distance slipping out from in between them.

"I think," Sharon says slowly, glancing down from her handwritten recipe and into the cart, inventorying their items with a bit of a frown. "I might need more flour."

Natasha laughs. "How many neighborhoods do you plan on feeding, exactly?"

"Everyone loves taking leftovers," Sharon reminds with a grin. "Besides, don't you want to hide some for yourself?"

"I'll grab another bag, then."

Sharon grins and Natasha gives her a two-fingered salute before walking off. She still knows this store like the back of her hand, knows where every obscure seasoning and whole-wheat, vegan produce is stored without having to look at any signs. Some of the same cashiers that would hand out gum and candy are still here now, waving at her as she walks passed. She remembers racing carts up and down the aisles and sneaking junk food when their parents weren't looking and charming free pastries from everyone at the bakery.

It's becoming harder and harder for her to remember, however, _why_ she was so hell-bent on getting out of this place to begin with.

She shakes the thought aside, grabs two bags of flour off of the shelf and spins on her heels—

And walks right into something—_someone_, rather, who manages to grab onto her arm to steady her with one hand while catching one of the bags of flour that slips out from her grasp with the other, and she finds herself staring into worried, welcoming blue eyes.

"Hey," she says, and it's in this breathy laugh because really, what are the odds? (Well, that's not true. He does live here.)

"Hey," he echoes, getting that playful grin of his on his lips again. "So I'm guessing your company was welcomed?"

She laughs again and nods. "You were right," she says a little needlessly.

"Well, I was hoping so," he admits. She gives him an amused look, and, elsewhere in her mind, registers how his grip loosens on her arm but doesn't pull away, so that he's sort of just holding onto her now. She thinks she should probably point it out, but his fingers shift, ever so slightly, and that feels like another playful dare.

(She doesn't point it out.)

"Oh?" she asks, one eyebrow arched.

"At least my way was a win for both of us," he says, and she's too busy laughing as she walks away to remember to ask for his name.

... ...

(She learns it from Sharon later that same day, when they're sitting under a blanket on the swinging bench over her porch, sipping beer and laughing over memories. Sharon lifts the hand holding her beer in a wave when the guy from across the street pulls out of his driveway, and Natasha resists the urge to wave, too, when he waves before driving away.

"That's Steve," Sharon offers. "He works in the same hospital as me, in the pediatric ward."

Natasha finds herself smiling. She barely knows this guy, but, for some reason, she knows that this is fitting for him.)

... ...

The morning of the block party, Natasha laces up her shoes and finds herself jogging down the same path she used to run every morning before, when she used to look beyond the horizon and picture running as hard as she could, as far away as she could get. She used to imagine the same thing in New York, when she ran on a treadmill in the gym and stared out the glass and over the city. If she'd let herself, she probably would've pictured these very same streets. She would've pictured two little girls racing each other up and down the concrete to see who got to the playground first, racing to see who would make it to the bigger shower after a grueling dance rehearsal, racing just to hear their laughter trail through the air. She ran to New York, desperate for the rush, only to find herself running right back here. This draws a breathy, labored laugh, echoing through the air before she can help it.

(Sharon was right. This will always be her home.)

As the sun rises higher and higher, she picks up her steps, letting her feet take her faster and faster, eyes drifting close for a second, relishing in the bite of the wind—

And she collides into something—_someone_, eliciting a grunt of surprise—and the force of her run sends them tumbling off of the sidewalk and onto the grass. She lands on top of whoever it is, feels the breath being knocked out of them from underneath her, and she gets out a breathless, "_shit_, sorry."

"It's alright," he groans out, and she finds Steve's eyes sparkling up at her. "If this is going to become a thing of ours, I can't say I'm dreading it."

A breeze passes, stirring up the scent of grass and morning dew and the sweet beginnings of spring – and, as Steve grins up at her, his hand comes to settle on her waist, his laugh is carried up and through the air in harmony with hers, sounding like home.


	4. you, washing over me

**15 Day Elemental Challenge – Day 4 – water**

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~2,100  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Steve/Natasha  
><strong>Prompts:<strong> "water" + "cleans their pool au" + "called the wrong number while drunk au" + "Imagine your OTP making out in a hot tub."

**and just like that, the chemicals react (4/15)**

"Don't blow the place up."

This is what Tony says to her when he hands over the keys to his family's summer house, and she wants to roll her eyes, but mostly she's still a little shocked that the Starks are letting her have full reign of the place for a few days. Yeah, she's been best friends with Tony since the third grade and his parents adore her – practically raised her, even, because they were the only people Nick trusted to watch her whenever he was out of town for work. This isn't the first time she's been handed something like she's their actual daughter.

But, still… a whole week in the summer house alone. Not even _Tony_ is trusted with that privilege sometimes.

"She'll probably keep it in better shape than _you_ have," Maria chimes in, not even looking up from her flower arrangement.

Natasha laughs at how offended he looks.

... ...

Of all the Stark vacation homes, the summer house is the one she knows the best. They spent two weeks here every year, right before they went back to school, and those were easily her favorite two weeks of vacation because Nick was always able to get out of work to join them. All they did was laze around the house, eat and swim and shop the outlets around town, pass the time with board games and TV marathons – rather boring compared to other places the Starks would take her to, but there was something about being here.

She heads for the kitchen as soon as she's there, drops her bags by the kitchen island and then pulls open the fridge, not sure what to expect.

She hadn't expected it to be stocked, though. It's not _full_, but it's not empty, either – like someone had done a bit of grocery shopping. She grabs the carton of milk to read the expiration date. Whoever went shopping had done it recently.

"Thought you might not be up to grocery shopping your first day back," a voice says. A voice she knows a little too well, considering she only ever hears it for two weeks a year.

She turns to find Steve Rogers smiling back at her as he tugs his shades off.

"Ever the boy scout," she teases, and those are the first words she's spoken to him since last summer.

If she's being honest, Steve Rogers is most of the reason she loves this place so much. He kind of goes hand-in-hand with the summer house in her mind, because this is where they met, her first night here, sitting at the dinner table with Nick and the Starks and the Rogers, beside a small boy with floppy blonde hair and blue eyes twinkling with a kind of mischief that was surprising on such an innocent face. She has no idea what kind of friendship the three of them would have had they spent more time together, but for two weeks every summer, it was their little bit of paradise – she and Tony and Steve, and sometimes Bucky and Sam, when they stayed home for the summer. This house was their castle.

Now he's the housekeeper over summers, because he turned sixteen and wanted to work, and Howard likes having excuses to give people things, apparently.

This happened two summers ago, and now they're eighteen, and leaving for college in a matter of weeks, and… she's not really sure where they stand, or what they are, or when she'll see him next, if these summer visits will still be a thing as the years go on.

She glances at him, and maybe she's imagining it, but his grin is a bit wry now, a bit bitter, like the same realizations are settling in his head, too.

"Want to get drunk in the hot tub?" she offers.

He laughs. "It's only two."

"It's Happy Hour somewhere," she points out, and he grins, eyes twinkling the way they would when they were ten and sneaking soda out of the fridge after dinner.

... ...

He sits across from her in the hot tub and she stretches her legs so that her feet are resting in his lap, and she's kind of in love with the way his hand is curving over the bone of her ankle, tracing over it idly as he sips his beer and glances every so often at the outline of her bikini under the surface of the water. He checked her out when she first stepped outside with it on, but even so, it felt _nice_, the way Steve has always made her feel, because he hadn't been ogling. He never does. His looks are admiring, almost in awe, like he can't help it.

It's the way he's always looked at her, she realizes, under the buzz of alcohol and the thrum of the jets. He looks at her like she's surprising yet familiar – like he's known her his whole life, but he's also seeing her for the first time.

(That's kind of their whole relationship right there.)

... ...

She rolls out of bed the next morning at a quarter after eleven, and even then, that's only because she can smell bacon and pancakes from down the hall and her stomach is grumbles in protest, upset with the alcohol and two sleeves of crackers she ate instead of dinner.

Steve is standing at the island, flipping pancakes over an electric griddle. He's _always_ been a morning person, which is irritating because she just _isn't_.

"If you weren't making me food right now, I'd feel weirder about you letting yourself in while I'm asleep," she informs.

"No, you wouldn't," he states cheekily, and, yeah, he's probably right. How many sleepovers had they had on the plush carpets of the downstairs den, curled together in a tangle of blankets and limbs? How many mornings has he sat beside her in this very kitchen, grinning brightly in amusement and scooping more food onto her plate as he is now, because he knows that's the quickest way for her to shake off sleep? Steve has been in her life almost as long as Tony and the Starks, settling into her heart before she had been given a choice.

(But then she thinks of their text conversations and IM chats, their late night Skype calls and the packages that would show up on her door, a token of his thoughts in a little box.

No. No, she'd definitely had a choice.)

She eats outside, lazing back in one of the lounge chairs as Steve cleans the pool, and she remembers how Maria would sit in this very spot, smiling under the shade of the patio umbrella as three little kids splashed in the water.

She wonders if she can see herself sitting here like Maria had, watching her kids running around as their laughter carries through the air.

After a moment, Steve glances over his shoulder at her, a dimpled, lopsided grin tugging at his lips, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she pictures him cradling a little girl with dark curls and blue eyes, her giggles echoing as he wades around with her in the shallow end of the pool.

... ...

She steps aside, making a face as someone vomits onto the kitchen tile by her feet.

How she let Maria convince her into coming to this party is still a mystery, but it's probably because Natasha considers the girl to be a good friend, even though they only met two summers ago and she can count on one hand the number of times they've hung out in person since then. She's awesome, though, and so damn convincing, so there was really no way Natasha was going to get out of any plans Maria wanted her to be part of. Right now, though, Maria is handling a situation with a friend who is getting drunker and drunker as she attempts to avoid her ex, and Natasha isn't really in the partying mood. She mostly wants to sit in the hot tub, drink wine and try to finish the book she and Pepper are both reading.

"Sorry," someone offers her as the guy gets hauled away, but she just waves her hand dismissively. She's partied with Tony Stark.

She's not one to judge.

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she squeezes through the crowd and tries to dial Maria. It barely rings before the girl picks up, and Natasha greets her with, "Someone almost threw up on my shoes so I'm taking that as my cue to leave."

"What?"

Natasha blinks. "Steve?"

"Yeah," he answers. "Are you… Did you say someone threw up on you?"

"Uh, no," she amends, pushing her way out the front door. "They almost did. I'm sorry – I thought I called Maria," she offers lamely, even though, after saying it, she realizes she must've just dialed the first number her buzzed mind could draw from memory. "I didn't mean to bug you. I know you're visiting your grandparents."

"Actually, I just got home. And you could never bug me, Natasha," he says with a soft chuckle, and she tips her head up, looking at the stars.

"Come over," she tells him, because that's all she really wants right now, even though it's already after midnight and, as much as the Starks love her and Steve, there has to be _some_ rule against having a guy over this late, right?

But then Steve laughs and says, "I'll pick you up," and she grins and forgets to worry about anything else.

... ...

It's hot out even this late at night, but there are clouds overhead that have been looming all afternoon, and the news said something about late night showers, so it could probably start raining any moment. She wants to go for a dip, though, and Steve doesn't seem concerned about a little rain, so they wade into the pool until the water is up to their shoulders and lounge around in the shallow end, sipping white wine from the glasses they have perched at the edge. She closes her eyes and tips her head back, exhaling a soft, content hum.

When she feels that first raindrop against her cheek, her eyes flutter open.

Steve moves to set his glass down and his arm brushes against hers, warmth rippling over her skin where they'd touched.

"Want to get inside?" he asks, voice soft, almost too soft for her to hear over the gentle tapping of raindrops against the surface of the pool water.

She sets her glass down, too, shaking her head. "Feels nice," she breathes, glancing up at the sky.

"Yeah, it does," he says, and, gaze lingering with hers, he lifts a hand out of the water and brushes aside the damp hair sticking to her face, causing a few drops of water to roll down her cheek. "Don't want to get sick, though. Got to think about tomorrow," he adds after a moment, voice gruff, and she blinks slowly, feeling the underlying conversation.

"I've thought about it," she tells him. He nods like he knows she means it. "Maybe I just want to feel this for a little longer."

"Because you think you might not get to anymore?" he asks, and, yeah, they're definitely talking about something else right now.

"Can't live in one moment forever," she says.

He nods in agreement, and she wonders when he'd gotten close enough that her knees are brushing against his, that she can count his eyelashes. The rain has picked up into a gentle, steady fall, tucking them away from the end of this moment, the end of summer.

"There'll be more moments," he says, one hand settling at her arm above her elbow, squeezing gently. "They'll follow you wherever you go."

She smiles, because she knows a promise when it's being made, and she knows that Steve _always_ keeps his promises.

... ...

They sit in the hot tub in the late hours of the next morning, one of his hands resting over the tops of her thighs as she sits in his lap, the other combing through her hair, their lips pressing together in soft, languid kisses. He pulls away only once, with a dimpled smile on his face betraying the question he asks but already knows the answer to – _is this alright?_ She smiles and thinks of all those nights they spent huddled under the covers, his voice a whisper right beside her or through the distance and static of a phone, lulling her to sleep. She thinks of every lingering glance, every teasing comment, the memories pouring over them from years and years, gentle and refreshing, rippling in waves of relief and content.

"This is more than alright," she breathes against his lips, sliding her hands to cradle his face, eyelids fluttering closed. "This is _perfect_."

He kisses her, and he tastes like raindrops and an endless summer.


	5. with the lights down low

**15 Day Elemental Challenge – Day 5 – electricity**

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~1,900  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Steve/Natasha  
><strong>Prompts:<strong> "electricity" + "sleeping somewhere else because their roommate's partner is there au" + "in the communal kitchen at an odd hour au" + "(530): as your best friend, I hope we never outgrow 'I Just Got Laid' texts"

**and just like that, the chemicals react (5/15)**

There are things Natasha does for Sif that she wouldn't even consider doing for anyone else, because she loves the girl and that means just about anything to make her happy is fair game. Even if that means crashing on the couch in the communal lounge for the night because she finally – _finally _– got her shit a little more sorted out with Thor. The two of them have been best friends practically since birth, and Natasha spent all of freshman and sophomore year watching them dance around each other like idiots because they were both too proud (aka: too afraid) to confess that they wanted more. They all had their fun making bets in the beginning, and they wanted to let Sif and Thor figure things out at their own pace.

But it was starting to get a little ridiculous.

Natasha very nearly squeals when she's leaving a frat across campus and reads the text from Sif warning her about the company in their room. Natasha was sure she saw them leave the party together, but getting the word from Sif herself is even better.

She'd gotten that text sometime before midnight, and now it's two in the morning and Natasha is in the kitchen making pancakes. Students have been filtering back all night and she gave up on getting any sleep. It's not like she expects them to know that she's crashing there, and her morning class canceled for tomorrow, so whatever. It's not a problem.

She's washing off her dishes when she hears soft footsteps coming down the hallway and into the kitchen, and then Steve is standing there, greeting her in a low tone.

"Hey," she replies, switching the water off. "I was just finishing up here if you wanted the kitchen to yourself."

"Nah, I just came to get a drink." She rips off a paper towel and turns to face him as she wipes her hands. He's in sweats and plain tee and his hair is sticking in different angles and he's still as ridiculously attractive as he is any other time of day. It's unfair, really. "Did you and Sif get into a fight or something?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrows in concern.

She blinks. "Where did that come from?"

"Well, you obviously haven't gone back to your room and changed from the party yet," he points out, nodding at her clothes.

She arches an eyebrow at him. "Maybe I was with someone."

"Were you?"

She laughs. One of the things she loves about Steve is that, while he never challenges people just for the hell of it, he doesn't shy away from anything, either. It's why he can get away with asking something as bluntly as he does when it would be offensive from any other person.

"No, I wasn't," she answers. "I just wanted to give Sif some space tonight."

She knows she's grinning when she says this, and Steve raises his eyebrows, looking amused. "Does this have to do with my roommate texting me not to wait up for him?" Natasha shrugs. Steve laughs, shaking his head. "Well, then you know I have an empty bed to offer, and something you can sleep in if you want to get out of that dress," he tells her.

He walks over, opens the fridge to grab a water bottle, and she tilts her head to meet his eyes. "What? Do you not like me in this dress?"

His lip twitches upward into a crooked grin as he looks her over. "No," he finally says after a moment of just – admiring her. (Because _staring_ does not to justice to the look in his eyes and the way his gaze made her feel.) "No, I still like you in the dress."

"And out of it?" she prompts. She's usually more subtle than this, but she'll blame it on the fact that she hasn't slept in hours.

Not that she needs an excuse to flirt with Steve. She just does it.

It's fun, and he's always just gone with it, so it's not like she's one of those girls that can't take a hint. They've been doing this since freshman year, and when their friends weren't making bets on when Thor and Sif would finally hook up, they were trying to riddle out whatever the hell was going on between Natasha and Steve. Neither of them cares for labels, but Natasha couldn't even put it into words if she tried. She just knows that she always wants to see him, and he makes her feel amazing, and even if her every thought isn't of kissing him or plotting ways to get him to ask her out, she'll still think of it sometimes – what it would be like to be like to kiss him. She doubts there's a word to explain all of that.

("That's called being in love, sweetheart," she'd said to Sif once about Thor. Maybe that applies here, too.)

Steve chuckles softly. "Come on," he says, and then waits for her to leave the kitchen before switching off the light.

He gives her a pair of sweats and a plain shirt from his drawers, then turns around and stares at the wall as she changes, only facing her again when she says that she's done. He glances over her, that same, heavy look in his eyes as he'd had in the kitchen, even now that she's just in sweats and an old tee.

"Still like you out of the dress, too," he tells her, and the funny part is that she knows he means it.

She grins, plopping herself onto his bed, because it's a given that she'll be sleeping in this one tonight. He picks up her clothes from where she'd tossed them onto Thor's bed and starts folding them, and she leans over to snatch his sketchbook from where it's sitting on the desk. She's always been one of the few people allowed to look through it.

He sets her clothes on the desk chair and then lifts her legs, settling onto the bed beside her, watching as she flips through his sketches.

They're gorgeous, of course. The objects he draws practically fall off of the pages, and his caricatures, while obviously outlandish and cartoony, are still sketched with the same attention of detail that it surprises her every time, seeing just how talented of an artist he is. But the thing is – the thing that's always sort of nagged at the back of her head is – he never seems to draw portraits. Or if he does, she hasn't seen any. She wonders if he's afraid to do it because it's actually harder, drawing people instead of cartoons and objects.

"Hey," she says so he'll look at her. (He's smoothing his thumb idly over the bone of her ankle and she doesn't hate how it feels.) "Draw me," she commands.

He exhales a laugh. "What?"

"I've never seen you draw a person before, and I think you'd be good at it."

She hands him back his sketchbook, open to a blank page, and he takes it one hand while ruffling his hair with the other. "I've tried before," he admits. "I'm not that good. And it seems a little wrong, drawing people without their permission."

"Well, you're never going to get better without practice, and I'm giving you permission."

He gives her a dimpled grin. "Can't argue with that, can't I?" She shakes her head and sits back against his headboard. He hesitates. "It's different when it's a person. Usually when I'm drawing an object, I can just pick a random point and start from there, maybe even find it and hold it in my hand if I need to." He furrows his eyebrows down at the blank page and she tries not to find his frustration so adorable. "How would I even begin picking a single feature on someone? Never mind trying to do justice to all the detail in their eyes…"

He's rambling, which he doesn't do often, or ever, really, with anything other than his art. It's definitely endearing.

She shifts closer, practically ending up in his lap, and he cuts himself off, turning to look at her. His breath is warm against her cheek, that's how close they are.

"How do I look?"

"Beautiful," he murmurs automatically, and, alright, that sends a surge of… _something_ right through her. She blinks and he gives her a smile.

"Thank you, but no," she laughs softly. "My very first dance teacher—before even showing us any steps of a new dance, she'd put on the music and then tell us to visualize it. We would describe what we thought the backdrop would look like and what the costumes would be. Whether we were close or not, gave us something concrete to start with."

"That's good advice," he says, meaning it.

"So try it now."

He hums in contemplation, eyes shifting down onto her lips, and then a little to the left. He lifts his hand and grazes his thumb across the apple of her cheek. "You have a freckle here," he notes. "One of the first things I noticed about you," he adds, as if in afterthought.

"Way to play on a girl's insecurities," she teases, and he chuckles because he knows she doesn't really mean it like that.

He traces his fingertips down the line of her jaw, tilting his head a little, eyes shifting over her. "I could probably draw your face from memory. I know it pretty well." He combs his fingers into her hair, grazing her scalp, and she closes her eyes and lets out a little hum of content, leaning into his touch. "I can probably draw your hair, too." He brushes his hand through the length of it. "I can definitely draw your lips," he tells her, getting this small smile. "I've kissed them before, so it's not like I can ever really stop thinking about them."

She breathes out a laugh. "Sounds like you should have no problem drawing me, then."

"Maybe just a headshot," he corrects. "The rest of you… I mean, I try not to stare." She raises her eyebrows. He shrugs. "Don't want to make you uncomfortable," he admits.

"Steve," she says, sounding exasperated, but still smiling. He's seriously ridiculous. "You could probably never make me feel uncomfortable."

His eyes fall on her lips again, then shift back up to meet her eyes as he nods. "Noted," he says lowly, and then his eyes trace down her body slowly, taking her in. She takes her lower lip between her teeth and looks up at him from underneath her eyelashes as his eyes make their way back to hers, and he breathes out her name.

She reaches behind her for the lamp on the desk, stopping when he grasps her wrist. He doesn't look worried, though.

"Kind of hard to study how you look with the lights out," he comments.

But she knows him, knows what he really means, what he really needs – permission.

So she raises an eyebrow at him, a playful smile on her lips rather than the challenging smirk she'd been going for, but whatever. He's smiling right back. "_Use your hands_," she says, and then very nearly squeals when he grasps her hips and kisses her as soon as she switches off the light.

... ...

Sif | 10:52AM  
><em>it's safe to come back to our room, by the way<em>

Sif | 10:52AM  
><em>thor's just about to leave<em>

Natasha | 10:55AM  
><em>yeah, tell him it's not safe for him to come back to his room, so...<em>

Sif | 10:56AM  
><em>why not?<em>

Sif | 10:56AM  
><em>OH MY GODS<br>_

Natasha | 10:58AM  
><em>thanks for kicking me out, we'll see you two for lunch (:<br>_


End file.
